Soul of a Dovahkiin
by Drachesoul
Summary: There was a brilliant confession I saw on the Skyrim tag on Tumblr one day about all the Daedric Princes they owed. This is how I pictured the scenario going in my head, after the death of the Dragonborn.


**I was on Tumblr a while ago and saw a Skyrim Confession about the Dragonborn pledging their eternal servitude to multiple Daedric Princes. Here's how I pictured the situation after the Dovahkiin's death, with all seventeen of them fighting over who gets to own the soul of the Dragonborn.**

Looking out at the rapidly forming crowd from my perch atop the auction block, I could see the Daedric Lords scrambling to find seats for tonight's auction. Judging by the lack of chairs and overall pandemonium, I could tell that events like this didn't happen very often. I supposed it was all my fault. After all, it's not every day that a Dragonborn dies. I sat down cross-legged and merely observed as some of the most powerful beings in all of Tamriel argued over where to sit.

"I want to sit there, I'll get the best view!"

"Stuff it, Sheogorath, Sithis asked me to save this spot for him. Go find a different seat."

"Damn it, Sanguine, stop stepping on my follower's paws!"

"Didn't anyone make it clear that dogs aren't allowed here, Hircine? Ow, stupid mutt!"

"Serves you right, calling one of my werewolves a mutt."

Over my lifetime I had personally met with each Daedric Lord in one form or another and been cowed by their sheer presence. They all projected an aura of power so strong that it had actually knocked me off my feet on several occasions. Of course, I liked some of the Princes more than the others, but all of them were extremely dangerous and volatile, and I wouldn't dare voice my favorites out loud.

"Tonight's auction should be the most profitable we've seen in centuries," a dremora hissed to its friend, taking attendance and going over a list labeled "Incoming Inventory".

"And it's all thanks to the Dovahkiin over here," the other one replied, shooting me a grotesque smile. I sighed, knowing that if I was here, the last thing that awaited me was Sovngarde, the warrior's rest.

I spotted Peyrite entering the room with a small group of his Afflicted followers, noticing that even the other Princes gave him a wide berth. I remembered meeting one of his priests at the top of a perilous cliff near Markarth, who sent me on a long journey to kill another priest who had fallen out of favor with the Prince of the Plague. I could never look at a skeever the same way again.

Meridia, Azura and Nocturnal sat in a corner, the only Princes that I had met that were remotely civil to me. The rest of them all had their own spiel about how failing or disobeying them would get me killed in a horrible way. All of them had described me as a tool at best, a powerful tool that while worthy of their favor, would one day belong to them.

And belong to them I did. The only problem was that now that I had died, I belonged to _all _of them. I had made several very foolish deals with the daedra in my lifetime, and had steadfastly proclaimed myself loyal to every single one of them.

As a member of the Thieves Guild, I had become one of three reinstated Nightingales, and had earned the favor of Nocturnal. After death, my soul would belong to her. Brynjolf and Karliah would probably shake their heads and say 'I told you so' if they were here.

Hircine also had a claim on my soul, courtesy of the beast blood that ran deep in my veins, giving me the power to shift my form into that of a wolf, terrorizing the land and hunting to my heart's content. Now that I was here, I could see why Kodlak had wanted to be cured of his lycanthropy before he died. But you know what they say about hindsight. His followers, a pack of werewolves, sniffed eagerly in my direction, as if they sensed a fellow wolf. I resisted the urge to bark a greeting.

Sithis looked at me with a grumpy look on his face, though it was hard to judge any emotion of his given that his chosen form right now was nothing more than a skeleton wrapped in long flowing robes of the deepest ebony, his cold stare almost driving me into the ground. I had done many things in his name as the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, through directions given to me by the Night Mother. He seemed to take my divided loyalties personally as he turned his head to discuss something with Mephala, beckoning for his follower, Astrid to approach him with a skeletal finger.

Hermaeus Mora, who I had only interacted with when he took the form of a giant, writhing mass of green and black tentacles, had chosen a human form for my auction, much like the others. He sat slouched in his chair, reading a book that glowed with eerie blue runes, accompanied by none other than Miraak. That bastard had proclaimed himself the true Dragonborn and had proceeded to try and kill me and the people I held dear on multiple occasions. He had fallen out of favor with the Daedric Prince of Knowledge, to be replaced by me, and I wondered how he had managed to worm his way back into Hermaeus Mora's good graces.

I smiled at Sheogorath, who was clinking goblets with Sanguine and taking a long draught of liquor. I had the most fun working for the King of the Shivering Isles. Oh he was as mad as Potema the Wolf Queen hopped up on skooma, but I rather enjoyed the manic glint in his eyes. It was different than that of the others. Working out what his riddles meant wasn't the easiest thing to do, and he could be testy, but I got the feeling that he wasn't always as crazy as people had depicted him. If he became the master of my soul, I'd be headed for the split world of the Shivering Isles, where Dementia and Mania reigned supreme.

Laughter drifted over from the table that consisted of Boethiah, Vaermina, Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon. They were playing dice with what looked like a human skull, occasionally grabbing one of their devotees by their colorful robes and placing them on the table as a bet. I shivered, remembering their parting speeches to me. They were the Princes that most of Tamriel considered to be 'demonic'. They represented Betrayal, Murder, Destruction and Enslavement. While I was still technically in their good standing, as their current champion, I knew that one misstep and I would find myself in a place worse than Oblivion.

A loud bell silenced the crowd, signaling the beginning of the auction. As the guest of honor, and the main masterpiece up for auction tonight I had been placed in the center of the room, where everyone could watch me. The first soul was auctioned off to an indifferent Namira, a beggar whom I had met once in Windhelm. As the rounds continued, I saw the souls of dozens of people pass on to their new masters. Hircine welcomed another werewolf into his pack and Clavicus Vile took possession of a deranged serial killer's soul, which his dog Barbas promptly ate.

People here in this realm were nothing more than currency, to be traded and used with as desired. Those that the Princes favored returned to their sides as mortal lieutenants of sorts, to control and deal with the more mundane aspects of running a plane of Oblivion. I wondered what fate would be given to me, the Dovahkiin.

"And finally, lot number 666, the Dovahkiin." Absolute silence fell and the gazes of all seventeen Daedric lords were trained on me.

I cleared my throat, "Um…hello." Chaos erupted all around me as the slightly stagnant atmosphere of the auction house turned frenetic in an instant.

"I want the Dragonborn!"

"Shut up, Clavicus Vile, I clearly have dibs on them!"

"All of you are idiots, I don't know why I even bother with the rest of you."

"My friends, let's all settle down and have a drink or two."

"Who just stabbed one of my priests?"

"No one cares, Azura, no one likes you."

"Do you know how much his soul cost me?"

I rolled my eyes and sat back down on the floor, watching as the negotiations evolved into a full out fight. An aura of power hung in the air like a sickly perfume as the Daedric princes literally fought for the right to my soul.

"I'll bring you your things," the dremora auction master said, casually ducking as the burning corpse of an unfortunate follower smacked into the wall with an audible _thud,_ where his head had been not a moment before. "You'll want something to amuse yourself with while my lords discuss the situation."

"How long do you think they'll be?"

"I wouldn't know, Dovahkiin. They've had to wait a very long time for your death. Look at it this way, you have all the time in the world now."

I huffed in irritation as he turned tail to retrieve my bag. For god-like beings that an entire world feared and worshipped, they had devolved into a giant argument, complete with what looked suspiciously like hair-pulling. I wasn't looking forward to my fate. Maybe I should've just left well enough alone. Damn Daedric Princes.


End file.
